photo by Joe Mazza and Brave Lux

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Keep up to date!


Many of you have asked for a mailing list to find out about upcoming productions, readings, and workshops.
The best way to do that is to "like" my new Facebook author page!

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Working on In the Shadow of his Language

Today's short play was an attempt at rewriting a scene from my full-length In the Shadow of his Language. As such, and because it's still very rough, I don't want to post it here. But have no fear, a play was written today! For those of you keeping score...

Monday, August 13, 2012

Samuel Makes Friends


Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Samuel Makes Friends
            By Jacob Juntunen
(SAMUEL sits at a computer, not typing. MEL, a young woman, enters.)
            MEL
So write your play.
            SAMUEL
I don’t think I’m ready.
            MEL
It’s almost midnight.
            SAMUEL
I know, Mel, but I haven’t figured out any interesting twists, or—
            MEL
You’ve been thinking about it for years now—
            SAMUEL
I know, but this scene, I mean, this whole relationship eludes me, and you’re no help—
            MEL
This is my fault now?
            SAMUEL
Well, yeah, I’d say you share some of the blame—
            MEL
Who’s the playwright here?
            SAMUEL
And I’ve got to write something by midnight, and at this rate it’s going to be one of those crappy plays about not being able to write a play—
            MEL
So writing the actual scene you want to write will be worse than that?
            SAMUEL
I at least have a little twist for my “why can’t I write” play.
            MEL
Involving me? Is that why you’re calling me Mel?
            SAMUEL
Yeah.
            MEL
Pathetic. You really mean to tell me you don’t have enough inspiration to write about Didi? It’s even her birthday, you know.
            SAMUEL
She’s a character.
            MEL
Well you gave her today as her birthday, so—
            SAMUEL
I’ll do it tomorrow.
            MEL
After your seven hour faculty meeting?
            SAMUEL
Wednesday, then?
            MEL
You’re going to have to pound something out about Didi soon, submission deadlines are coming up—
            SAMUEL
I can always submit next year.
            MEL
Yup. You can always just write it next year, too. Just sit here, blame me, don’t write—
            SAMUEL
Just get off my back!
            MEL
You want me to go?
            SAMUEL
I didn’t say that.
            MEL
Cause I can go. If you don’t need your little “Mel.”
            SAMUEL
How am I going to write a tragedy without Melomene?
            MEL
You won’t.
            SAMUEL
So help?
            MEL
On some self-indulgent shitty why can’t I write, oh, boo hoo, play?
            SAMUEL
Sing, oh Muse, about the tragedy of Didi O’Connor—
            MEL
I am, but you’re too scared to listen. Call me when you’re actually ready.
(MEL leaves.)
            SAMUEL
Sorry, Didi. But happy birthday anyway.

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

My Portlandía

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            My Portlandía
            By Jacob Juntunen
(PORTLANDÍA sits, covered in bandaids. WILL addresses the audience.)
            WILL
I had just finished my morning commute to the studio lot, when I saw a familiar face in a Jaguar next to my Lexus. It was Jacob, a writer I knew from Portland in my post-college years. We exclaimed and clasped hands. He was in LA writing for a new HBO drama which I’d been hired to direct a few episodes for. We left the studio and got to talking about the past. We both remembered my roommate Portlandía, but it seems Jacob had written a book about her… He asked my favorite memory to add to his collection, and I had to relate to him the time I came home to find her covered in bandaids…
            PORTLANDÍA
Ow! So mean, so mean.
(PORTLANDÍA applies another bandaid. WILL enters the scene.)
            WILL
Hey, Portlandía, I was gonna make some gallo pinto tonight, do you want­—
            PORTLANDÍA
Did you try that vegan honey I bought?
            WILL
The corn syrup in the fridge?
            PORTLANDÍA
The guy told me it was vegan honey, no bees were harmed in its making. I just can’t stand the thought of those poor little bees harnessed and enslaved, forced to make honey—
            WILL
I think it’s just what bees do— OW!
(WILL slaps his arm.)
            PORTLANDÍA
Oh, hey, don’t kill them.
            WILL
Kill what? Ow!
(WILL slaps his arm.)
            PORTLANDÍA
Our little houseguests.
            WILL
Who? Ow!
(WILL slaps his arm.)
            PORTLANDÍA
I think they’re living in my hair. I haven’t been able to wash it in weeks now. Ow! Hey, now, that’s not cool, little guy.
(PORTLANDÍA puts on another bandaid.)
            WILL
What are you doing?
            PORTLANDÍA
I won’t want the bites to get infected.
            WILL
Is that a flea?
            PORTLANDÍA
Probably. They’re everywhere.
            WILL
Ow!
(WILL slaps his arm.)
            PORTLANDÍA
Oh, hey, that’s not cool. They’re living things, too.
            WILL
They’re in your hair?
            PORTLANDÍA
I don’t know. I started finding them on the pillow a few weeks ago, so I haven’t washed it since, just in case.
            WILL
Okay, I’m going to go to Fred Meyer to get a bug bomb, and you go wash your hair—
            PORTLANDÍA
I will not be party to genocide!
            WILL
They’re biting us.
            PORTLANDÍA
I’m a pacifist, man. I have to, you know, use nonviolent means on them. I’ve been negotiating with them, seeing if we can come to some sort of agreement, but so far—
            WILL
Oh, hey, there’s a sale on hemp soap at Trader Joe’s—
            PORTLANDÍA
Really?! That place never has sales.
            WILL
Yeah, I know, so why don’t you go grab some, and I’ll start the gallo pinto—
            PORTLANDÍA
Cool. You’re the best, Will.
(PORTLANDÍA exits; WILL speaks to the audience)
            WILL
So she left, I went to Fred Meyer, returned with a bug bomb, and had a flea holocaust. Jacob and I had a laugh over that story, where my life was compared unfavorably to a flea’s, and I noticed a tear in his eye. He got up, paid the bill, told me to let HBO know that he quit, and he got back in his Jaguar and drove it to Portland that very day. Last I heard from him, he traded the Jaguar for a Prius, found Portlandía, and they founded a commune where he taught theatre history to chickens before they were slaughtered. Ah, my Portlandía.

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Ghosts

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Ghosts
            By Jacob Juntunen
(WOMAN is supine on the floor. MAN kneels over her, cradling her head)
            WOMAN
Don’t forget me…
            MAN
Don’t go! Don’t leave me!
            WOMAN
I’m sorry…
(WOMAN dies)
            MAN
Noooooooooooooo!
(MAN sobs. After a moment, WOMAN, looking somewhat surprised, sits up.)
            WOMAN
It’s okay.
            MAN
You’re alive!
            WOMAN
No, I’m dead, but now you have super powers and can see ghosts.
            MAN
Okay, this isn’t funny, I’m calling an ambulance.
            WOMAN
Nope. I’m dead. Seventeen bullets don’t lie.
            MAN
That was sort of overkill for a mugging, don’t you think?
            WOMAN
Hey, they did the job.
(WOMAN stands, brushing herself off)
            MAN
If you’re a ghost, how come I can’t see your body? And you’re not, you know, floating around and transluscent?
            WOMAN
You’re focused on the spiritual plain now; my body’s still lying there. You just don’t see it anymore.
            MAN
So, what, Patrick Swayze’s going to come serenade me with Henry the Eighth all night now?
            WOMAN
I think it’s more of a “you have to save the world from demons” sort of super power.
            MAN
So Joss Whedon’s in one of these bushes filming all this?
            WOMAN
More like Seth MacFarlane with all the pop culture references.
            MAN
Listen, I don’t care about my super powers, or what director’s style is most like my circumstance, all I want is you to stay with me.
            WOMAN
Can’t. Sorry. They’re waiting for me.
            MAN
Who is?
            WOMAN
Everyone else in heaven.
            MAN
But how can I go on without you?
            WOMAN
You’ll be okay. You’ll save the world some, and, when you die, I’ll come get you.
            MAN
Like Last of the Mohicans reversed?
            WOMAN
(imitating Daniel Day-Lewis) Stay dead! I will find you!
            MAN
You promise?
            WOMAN
You can count on me, like a structural rule on Law and Order.
(They embrace. Blackout.)

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Jako!

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            JAKO!
            By Jacob Juntunen
(WOMAN is reading. JAKO enters)
            JAKO
Hello!
            WOMAN
Oh, no, Jako. Not tonight. I have a headache.
            JAKO
I make you forget headache!
            WOMAN
I don’t want to forget my headache.
            JAKO
Is good to forget headache!
            WOMAN
Please, Jako, just leave me alone.
            JAKO
Is my birthday soon!
            WOMAN
Yes, true—
            JAKO
I get cake!
            WOMAN
Cake isn’t good for my stomach—
            JAKO
Chocolate!
            WOMAN
Too rich—
            JAKO
Is my birthday! One year ago, your daughter lose job, get divorce, and I come visit! Make cake!
            WOMAN
Cake isn’t on my diet. Doctor’s orders.
            JAKO
Is early birthday party!
            WOMAN
Okay, you know what? I’m just going to have some milk—
            JAKO
NO!
            WOMAN
Yes, a nice glass of milk—
            JAKO
Is too much base! Need acid!
            WOMAN
And maybe a pepcid. I think I have one in my purse—
            JAKO
No medicine! No medicine!
            WOMAN
I don’t want you to turn into a bleeding mass on my stomach lining, so, go away Jako.
            JAKO
I wait for you! When you eat spicy food! When you worry about your family! When you can’t sleep!
            WOMAN
Goodnight, Jako.
((WOMAN takes pill. JAKO exits)

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

First Responders

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            First Responders
            By Jacob Juntunen
(MAN and NURSE are facing one another.)
            MAN
But you don’t understand, he’s my partner.
            NURSE
He’s getting prepped for surgery. It doesn’t matter who you are, you can’t see him.
            MAN
We were some of the first responders when the towers fell, digging through that rubble together—
            NURSE
Making it ten years after that is pretty good.
            MAN
After all the shit we breathed? I’m the only one I know from our group that doesn’t have something wrong with me.
            NURSE
We’re going to do our best for him, but he’s not young anymore, and there’s fluid in his lungs—
            MAN
So you’ve got to let me see him. What if he never wakes up?
            NURSE
He’s already had the drugs; he’s barely conscious—
            MAN
But he’s awake?
            NURSE
Barely, I don’t know if he’d even recognize you.
            MAN
After all these years together?
            NURSE
I’m sorry.
            MAN
What if I wear scrubs or whatever?
            NURSE
We don’t have any extra—
            MAN
You’ve got to have those surgery masks or whatever. I can wash up, do whatever doctors do before surgery—
            NURSE
He’s not in surgery yet—
            MAN
Then why can’t I see him?
            NURSE
He’s being prepped, they’re shaving his chest, they’ve already got him on a sedative, and the anesthesiologist—
            MAN
What if you came back with me?
            NURSE
Someone’s got to be at the front desk.
            MAN
Call someone else! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell, it’s just—
            NURSE
I understand.
            MAN
—we’ve been together for over a decade. Come back with me, I’ll do whatever you say. If you say we’ve got to leave, I’ll leave, but I’ve got to see him, tell him everything will be okay, pet him one last time. When we were going through the rubble, we thought his nose would find all kids of wounded, but there weren’t any survivors. We just kept finding bits of people. But people would see him, fall to their knees—tough guys, too, you know? Guys I’ve known since we were in the academy together—and they’d just cry into his fur. He was our four-legged shrink, getting us through those days. I can’t let him go without saying goodbye.
            NURSE
(picking up phone) Hey, Marie? Can you come up and watch the front desk for a few minutes?

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Goodnight

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Goodnight
            By Jacob Juntunen
(MAN and WOMAN sit up in bed.)
            MAN
After twelve years of marriage, have you woken up a single time without me?
            WOMAN
Yes.
            MAN
Okay, trips for interviews or whatever. But not many.
            WOMAN
Not many.
            MAN
So it’s just like that. You take the pill, fall asleep, and we wake up together.
            WOMAN
What if we wake up whole different people?
            MAN
Medication is not going to make you another person.
            WOMAN
This disease has taken me over; my mind works differently—
            MAN
Otherwise you’d listen to me and take your medication.
            WOMAN
You think it’s just eating away at your breast, but it gets into your bloodstream, and bones, and brain—
            MAN
And we have these pills that will take care of it.
            WOMAN
And you’ll be with me when I wake up?
            MAN
I promise.
            WOMAN
How many am I supposed to take?
(MAN holds out a handful of pills.)
            WOMAN
That many?
            MAN
If it’s going to work.
(WOMAN takes the pills.)
            WOMAN
How long?
            MAN
Just until you fall asleep. Then we’ll wake up together and be fine. You’ll see.
(WOMAN settles into the bed.)
            WOMAN
See you soon.
            MAN
Goodnight.
(They kiss. WOMAN closes her eyes. MAN watches. WOMAN’s breath catches. MAN feels for a pulse, finds none. He holds his cheek against her mouth, finds no breath. He kisses her again.)
            MAN
See you soon.
(MAN takes a handful of pills. He settles next to the woman. Blackout.)

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Send in the Dog

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Send in the Dog
            By Jacob Juntunen
(JACK sits typing on a laptop, desk covered in papers which he is collating into piles. JILL enters.)
            JILL
Can you believe this weather? In November?
            JACK
Nicest day of the year and I can’t get this stuff into any kind of order. There’s something about a deadline that makes good work impossible.
            JILL
(holding up a leash) Well, you know who sent me in here.
            JACK
The dog did not send you in here.
            JILL
He suggested we do that loop around Seth Falls.
            JACK
If I can’t get my tenure portfolio into some sort of shape, I’m going to be out of a job.
            JILL
You’ll get it.
            JACK
After the publisher pushed back the publication date on my book? I’m hanging by a thread and if I fuck up this portfolio, that’s it. I’ll have to go back on the job market, and even if I find another job, we’ll have to move again. If we have to pay for that, so much for Jimmy’s private school.
            JILL
But I made us a picnic. You have to eat. We can just go out to Harvest Point and—
            JACK
Getting out to Harvest Point will take at least a couple hours. How about I take a break around 1 and we can eat the picnic in the yard together?
            JILL
A little exercise will help you get some sleep tonight. You need to be fresh for the tenure interview.
            JACK
Finishing this before 2am will help me sleep.
            JILL
It’s not even noon.
            JACK
And I’ve got a lot to do.
            JILL
How many chances do we get at a day like this?
            JACK
More than chances for tenure.
            JILL
What are we going to say to Jimmy when the dog dies?
            JACK
The dog’s fine.
            JILL
He’s turning 13 next week.
            JACK
He’s still got tons of energy, he swims on our hikes.
            JILL
It’s six months until spring. Six months is a long time for a dog. How many more days like this are we going to get before then?
            JACK
If I don’t get tenure, we can’t keep our son in private school.
            JILL
You’ve been here five years. They know you. They know your work. They know your book is coming out, it’s just a little late. You can sit and obsess and probably over think all this and mess it up, or you can come out with me and the dog, enjoy the day, clear your head, and do better work.
            JACK
I don’t have time today to just get out there and enjoy things, okay? There’s too much on the line.
            JILL
When you feel like you don’t have enough time is when you need to get out there most. To get your perspective right. They know you’re good at your job. You need to relax and you’ll get this done. Come for a hike, you’ll see. Hike for a couple hours with me and the dog, have a little picnic, and then we pick up Jimmy from school— After that, the portfolio will just write itself. And I’ll help you if it doesn’t.
            JACK
Give me the leash.

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Death Drive

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Death Drive
            By Jacob Juntunen
            MIKE
All right. The whole truth, then. You know what Freud calls the death drive? It’s always been real strong in me. Whenever I’m driving on those two-lane country roads at night, and headlights are coming towards me, I just want to swerve into the left hand lane, just, be done with it all. That’s the first part of the truth.
Ten years ago, I started seeing a psychiatrist because I was scaring myself. But I guess you know that. I guess you’ve already talked to her under that “threat to myself or others” clause. I never got rid of the impulses altogether, that’s true, but they became less loud, more manageable. I didn’t like to get too close to the edge of subway tracks when I was on business trips, and I tried to avoid those country lanes at night, but it was okay, whatever she told you.
So what was I doing out on 550 at midnight? I just wanted pizza. The only place that was still open was Avalanche, out on State Street. So I had to leave the farm and drive out there. If it wasn’t for that stupid pizza and the death drive, he’d still be alive.
But if you look at the skid marks, you’ll see he swerved into my lane. It was intentional. I could see my headlights reflecting in his eyes, like a cat’s, right through the windshield. He looked… determined. I understood it. There’s no way I could have stopped with the fifty-five miles per hour speed limit. Not with him coming at me head on. If it wasn’t for the Volvo, I’m sure I’d be in the graveyard next to him.
My impulses from the past might make it look suspicious, and it’s a big coincidence, I’ll grant you that, your honor, but it was his death drive, not mine, on the road that night. I’m innocent. And that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Control

Not my best work, but in the spirit of transparency, here it is, #5 of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Control
            By Jacob Juntunen
            AGENT
Just an update, ladies and gentlemen, your plane isn’t here yet. It’s still at the gate in Charlotte, so just hang tight near the gate, and I’ll provide information as I have it. Thank you for your patience.
CUSTOMER enters.
            CUSTOMER
Hi, I’m on this flight, and I need to know when it will make it to LaGuardia.
            AGENT
Once the plane’s in the air from Charlotte, it’s about an hour travel time, and once it’s here we’ll have to deplane it. But then we’ll get you on as quickly as possible.
            CUSTOMER
Okay, but when will the plane get here?
            AGENT
About an hour after it takes off.
            CUSTOMER
And when will it take off?
            AGENT
I don’t have that information.
            CUSTOMER
Why not?
            AGENT
It’s up to flight control in Charlotte.
            CUSTOMER
Well, what’s going on?
            AGENT
There’s a delay?
            CUSTOMER
I know that, but why?
            AGENT
I don’t have that information either, but it’s probably the weather.
            CUSTOMER
It’s perfectly sunny.
            AGENT
Here, yes, but there’s a storm system in Charlotte. It’s probably that.
            CUSTOMER
So when will the plane take off?
            AGENT
I don’t know ma’am.
            CUSTOMER
How can I find out?
            AGENT
You can’t.
            CUSTOMER
But I need to know when I’ll get to LaGuardia.
            AGENT
I’m sorry, ma’am.
            CUSTOMER
Can I speak to your supervisor?
            AGENT
He’s not going to know anything different than what I have here.
            CUSTOMER
Please call him.
            AGENT
Ma’am, I have the most up to date information, and we’re just waiting on the plane out of Charlotte. There’s nothing we can do to—
            CUSTOMER
How can there be nothing? I’ve got to get to LaGuardia.
            AGENT
I understand that, but—
            CUSTOMER
Tell me what’s going on!
            AGENT
Ma’am, please sit back down or I’ll have to call security.
            CUSTOMER
To what, arrest me? You’re the one that should be arrested! I paid for this flight, and I demand to know what time we’ll be taking off!
            AGENT
(on phone) Charlie, we’ve got a 147 at gate C18—
            CUSTOMER
I’m not a 147, I’m a person! I demand—
            AGENT
Thanks, Charlie.
            CUSTOMER
Don’t you dare ignore me!
            AGENT
I’m not ignoring you, ma’am. And if you don’t sit down the nice men right over there walking this way won’t be ignoring you, either.
            CUSTOMER
This is a crime! A crime!
            AGENT
As you say, ma’am.
            CUSTOMER
I’m sitting, but I’m calling customer service and demanding an explanation! And that you get fired! You tangled with the wrong lady, mister!
            AGENT
Okay, ma’am.
CUSTOMER exits.
            AGENT (cont)
Again, ladies and gentlemen, your plane is still at the gate in Charlotte. I’ll provide information as soon as there’s a change. Thank you for your patience.

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Zombie Doom

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            Zombie Doom
            By Jacob Juntunen
            For Jeremy Sony
Two women sit together.
            Brandy
So can I stay?
            Erin
Everything’s been so fucked up since Zombie Doom.
            Brandy
I’m good at the game. Let me be on your team.
            Erin
Let’s hear the rest of your story first. Then what did you do?
            Brandy
What could I do? I had to choose between the shotgun and the pistol.
            Erin
You had bullets?
            Brandy
That was the thing. I only had two shotgun shells left, but I got the pistol off a policeman’s corpse before he reanimated. So I had a full chamber, plus a couple cartridges.
            Erin
And it’s a 45?
            Brandy
Police-issue. Anyway, I went with the shotgun and got a one of them, but the other one wasn’t a clean head shot, and you know how if you don’t hit that bull’s eye target, they don’t go down? So, yeah. Had to run.
            Erin
You’re telling me running’s your special skill?
            Brandy
Hotwiring’s my special skill. I took the police car right out of that parking garage. Ran over a bunch of ‘em.
            Erin
Nice.
            Brandy
I don’t know if that kills ‘em, though.
            Erin
Only if you crush the head. Gotta see brains. It should be rated R.
            Brandy
Yeah, right. “Hey, kids, don’t try this at home.”
            Erin
Except it’s kids that are best at it.
            Brandy
I know, right?
            Erin
Well, they grew up with it.
            Brandy
I don’t know if I even want to have kids now, in this culture.
            Erin
Don’t tell Tom that, though.
            Brandy
Oh, shit. That’s not a problem for you, is it?
            Erin
I don’t care whether you have kids. I stayed on the pill as long as I could. But Tom wants to repopulate the Earth or some shit. No woman’s going to stay here without getting fucked.
            Brandy
Jesus. He’s your husband.
            Erin
Yeah, well, those distinctions don’t seem to matter now after Zombie Doom.
            Brandy
Aren’t you jealous?
            Erin
It’s not like I can go anywhere. And I can’t run the farm without him.
            Brandy
Shit. Well. All right, if fucking’s part of the package, whatever, I’ll deal. I can’t keep running. I need to stay with you guys. You’re the first uninfected people I’ve met that have a working farm still. I’ve got the shotgun—
            Brandy
But no shells—
            Erin
Hey, it works, all right? Plus the pistol and a couple full cartridges. The cop car’s got half a tank of gas, billy club, tools in the trunk. And, I’ve got seeds.
            Brandy
What kind?
            Erin
Wheat. Corn. Carrots.
            Brandy
Where’d you get seeds?
            Erin
There’s a general store in Amesville no one got to yet.
            Brandy
Bullshit.
            Erin
The seeds are in the car if you don’t believe me.
            Brandy
Let’s go take a look. If you’ve got seeds and can deal with Tom’s repopulation plans, looks like you can stay.


Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.

Friday, August 3, 2012

The Dead Line

Part of 31 Plays in 31 Days.                        
            The Dead Line
            By Jacob Juntunen
STUDENT sits in PROFESSOR’s office.
            PROFESSOR
So how was your summer? Did you finish the research for your thesis play?
            STUDENT
That’s what I wanted to talk about.
            PROFESSOR
I don’t know if I like the sound of that.
            STUDENT
I did all the secondary research—
            PROFESSOR
Sure.
            STUDENT
Had a really solid idea for the plot—
            PROFESSOR
The one from the Pullman Grant application?
            STUDENT
Basically.
            PROFESSOR
Too bad you didn’t get that.
            STUDENT
Yes. Exactly. Because, if I had, I would have made it to the archive before last week. I’m going to need an extension on the first draft.
            PROFESSOR
How much do you have written?
            STUDENT
See, that’s the thing, at the archive I learned—
            PROFESSOR
How many pages?
            STUDENT
None. Exactly.
            PROFESSOR
You have some inexactly written?
            STUDENT
Actually, yes, you see, the archive made my plot impossible—
            PROFESSOR
How so?
            STUDENT
Well, I thought the women working at Auschwitz went to the recreation lodge throughout the duration of 1944, but it seems like they went once. For eight hours. A day trip.
            PROFESSOR
So what’s the problem?
            STUDENT
My plot was based on these women visiting with SS officers over this very specific period of time—
            PROFESSOR
And why can’t you write that?
            STUDENT
It’s not what happened.
            PROFESSOR
You’re writing fiction, aren’t you?
            STUDENT
But based on a historical—
            PROFESSOR
Listen. History is in service to your narrative here, and you need a thesis play. The deadline is inflexible if you want to graduate before your funding runs out.
            STUDENT
There’s got to be some wiggle room—
            PROFESSOR
None.
            STUDENT
But, see, here’s the thing, this is a huge topic, the tone has to be just right—
            PROFESSOR
I agree.
            STUDENT
So I’ve got to work within the facts.
            PROFESSOR
I don’t see that.
            STUDENT
I feel like the dead are watching me, like I owe it to them—
            PROFESSOR
What you owe is emotional truth, everyone takes liberties with history, look at Shakespeare.
            STUDENT
Right, look at Shakespeare. He didn’t write history plays, he wrote propaganda plays for the ruling regime—
            PROFESSOR
He manipulated history to find the truth within lies; that’s what an artist does.
            STUDENT
But his lies supported Elizabeth’s reign, I can’t just throw out these facts—
            PROFESSOR
Of course you can. We’re dramatists, not historians, and if this were a commission you’d have to turn in a product.
            STUDENT
But if we ignore history, even the dead won’t be safe.
            PROFESSOR
You’re really stuck on dead people.
            STUDENT
That’s who I’m writing about!
            PROFESSOR
There’s a deadline to apply for graduation. In order to make that deadline, your thesis committee must see a script and see it develop. If you have no draft for us by the deadline—
            STUDENT
But there’s a line of dead people behind this whole project: my Polish ancestors, my wife’s family who died at Auschwitz, the perpetrators who were human, too, despite what we want to think about them—
            PROFESSOR
So which deadline do you care about? The one towards your degree and everything you’ve worked for during your years here, or this ethereal list of people who aren’t in your life?
            STUDENT
They’re why I’m here.
            PROFESSOR
I’m why you’re in this program—
            STUDENT
No, I mean, they’re why I’m on this earth.
            PROFESSOR
If there’s no draft, I don’t know whether we can grant you a degree this year. Maybe never Write the play you proposed.
            STUDENT
I am. I’m writing the truth behind the lies I unintentionally told in my proposal.
            PROFESSOR
Fine. As long as I have pages on my desk by Monday.
            STUDENT
I have to continue research—
            PROFESSOR
The time for that is past. Without any text, we’ll have to reconsider your funding.
            STUDENT
Well. You’d better have that meeting with the powers that be, then. Send me an e-mail if I need to start applying for jobs.

Jacob is head of playwriting at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. 
Read his full lengths
here.